16 August: Boreham on John Drinkwater

A Poet's Craft
It was on the sixteenth of August 1897 that John Drinkwater, a boy of sixteen, wrote a poem that fired him with roseate dreams of a future minstrelsy. It was in the school of hard knocks that the boy graduated and qualified for his outstanding position as the world's most practical poet. Born at Leytonstone in Essex, he was the son of a schoolmaster, who, relinquishing his profession to become an actor, packed John off, at the age of nine, to live with his grandfather at Oxford. There he attended the High School.

After six years at that school, he obtained a position, at the age of 15, in the office of the London and Lancashire Insurance Co. at Nottingham, and thus embarked upon a singularly eventful and colourful career. An office stool, however, made no appeal to him. He was even then dreaming of a life devoted to literature or the stage or both; and his meagre salary did little towards reconciling him to business life. He had to live on 14 shillings a week; and, to do so, resorted to the market-place each day at lunchtime, bought a pennyworth of bad fruit, and appeased his ravenous hunger on such edible scraps as he could find among the pulpy mess. In spite of everything, however, he maintained his love of sport, particularly rowing and cricket, and toiled terribly to perfect his skill in literary composition. Greatly daring, he published a volume of poems as soon as he came of age and followed it three years later with "The Death of Leander." These he afterwards described as unbelievably bad. He sent a copy of "Leander" to his uncle, begging him to buy it. His uncle replied, enclosing half a crown, and urging his wayward nephew to give up poetry, "as one might have advised me to give up drink." It was not an auspicious debut.

A Singer Casts Wistful Eyes Towards The Stage
Side by side with his cultivation of the muse, the youth had devoted himself, not without success, to amateur theatricals. In 1907, at the age of 25, he wrote his first play, "Coupetua," and, with Sir Barry Jackson, formed the Pilgrim Players. Fairly launched on his literary and theatrical career, he relinquished his position in the insurance office. He wrote his resignation with a trembling hand. "The merest shade more prudence," he says, "the merest shade less of self-confidence, and I might have stayed where I was for ever, or until I retired at 60 with a pension, which, at least, would have been more than I am likely to do now." From that hour he never looked back and in 1918 he produced "Abraham Lincoln."

"Abraham Lincoln" is one of the thinnest and yet one of the cleverest and most gripping chronicle-plays ever staged. It has no plot, no scheme, no love-story, no interweaving thread to bind its several parts into a united whole. It consists merely of half-a-dozen tableaux, representing typical episodes in the life of the great President. But the masterly artistry of Drinkwater lies in the skill with which, by means of these six scenes, he portrays the developing character of Lincoln as it has never been depicted in novel, biography, or film. John Drinkwater chose Lincoln as his hero because, he says, "Lincoln handled war nobly and with imagination," and that impression grows upon the consciousness of the audience as the play proceeds to its moving and tremendous climax. As the stripping bare of a great soul, the drama is absolutely unique.

The Work Is But A Revelation Of The Man
The spirit of the man is best revealed in his choice of heroes. In his "Cromwell" and in his "Lincoln" he enters the very souls of those immortal stalwarts. Who can doubt that the prayers he puts into the lips of Cromwell represent the cry of his own hungry heart? As Mr. Sturgeon incisively observes: "John Drinkwater frequently uses the word God, even when there is no dramatic urgency, as one of the earlier Puritans might have used it. There is, too, a characteristic humility which is religious in its basis and the hymn on which, in the poem, Cromwell's life closes, is the essential music of the Christain faith."

Drinkwater will always be remembered as a robust and healthy-minded Englishman, frank, sane, and excellently-balanced, who loved life, loved his country, loved his art, and dearly loved his fellow men. No atom of artificiality entered into his composition. He was nothing if not practical. He has poems on building better houses, keeping cleaner streets, ordering the traffic, and on countless kindred themes. Even his religious verses strike a matter-of-fact note—

Lord, not for light in darkness do we pray,
Not that the veil be lifted from
our eyes,
Nor that the slow ascension of our day
Be otherwise.
Grant us
the will to fashion as we feel,
Grant us the strength to labour as we
know,
Grant us the purpose ribb'd and edg'd with steel,
To strike the
blow.
Knowledge we ask not—knowledge Thou hast lent,
But, Lord, the
will—there lies our bitter need,
Give us to build above the deep
intent,
The deed, the deed.

To the very last he was the soul of unselfishness. If he chanced to meet a young fellow who displayed a fondness for music, a leaning to literature or an aspiration towards excellence in art, Drinkwater's delight was unbounded, and he would spend himself without stint in assisting and encouraging the youthful beginner. Keen to the last on rowing, he showered countless kindnesses on the members of the Oxford and Cambridge crews; sent them jovial messages and handsome presents during their severe training; and, when it was all over, begged them to accept seats at one or other of his plays.

It was, as a matter of fact, on Boat Race Night that he so tragically passed away. He had just finished "The King's Majesty," specially written for the coronation of our present sovereign.[1] He watched the boat-race with his usual zest and excitement, and in the evening, attended a dinner at which several of the oarsmen were present. Full of fun and animal spirits, he waved a laughing goodbye to the company, drove home, went to bed and slipped away in his sleep. And, a few hours later, while the Easter bells were ringing, the world learned to its sorrow that his last song had been sung.

[1] This editorial appears in the Hobart Mercury on June 1, 1946.

F W Boreham

Image: John Drinkwater